The only real difference between this farmyard and modern ones she had seen was the absence of rusting farm equipment; there was a shovel resting against the barn, and two or three battered plowshares in a shed that they passed, but no ramshackle tractor; no tangles of wire and scattered metal scraps.
The animals were healthy, too, if somewhat smaller than their modern counterparts. A loud “Baaah!” announced the presence of a small herd of fat sheep in a paddock on the hillside, who trotted eagerly up to the fence as they passed, woolly backs wobbling and yellow eyes agleam in anticipation.
“Spoilt bastards,” Ian said, but with a smile. “Think anyone’s come up here has come to feed ye, don’t you? My wife’s,” he added, turning to Brianna. “She gives them all the cast-off truck from the kailyard, till ye’d think they’d burst.”
The ram, a majestic creature with great coiled horns, extended his head over the fence and emitted an imperious “Beheheh!” that was immediately echoed by his faithful flock.
“Bugger off, Hughie,” said Ian, with tolerant scorn. “You’re no mutton yet, but the day’ll come, aye?” He waved dismissively at the ram and turned up the hill, kilt swinging.
Brianna hung back a step, watching his stride in fascination. Ian wore his kilt with an air quite unlike anything she was used to; not a costume nor a uniform—with a conscious bearing, but more as though it were part of his body than an article of clothing.
In spite of that, she knew it wasn’t usual for him to wear it; Jenny’s eyes had opened wide when he had come down to breakfast; then she had bent her head, burying a smile in her cup. Young Jamie had flicked a dark brow at his father, got back a bland look, and settled to his sausage with a faint shrug, and one of those small subterranean noises common to Scottish males.
The plaid cloth was old—she could see the fading along the creases and the wornness at the hem—but carefully kept. It would have been hidden away after Culloden, along with the pistols and the swords, with the pipes and their pibrochs—all the symbols of pride conquered.
No, not quite conquered, she thought, with a queer small tug at her heart. She remembered Roger Wakefield, squatting beside her under a gray sky on the battlefield at Culloden, his face lean and dark, eyes shadowed with knowledge of the dead nearby.
“Scots have long memories,” he’d said, “and they’re not the most forgiving of people. There’s a clan stone out there with the name of MacKenzie carved on it, and a good many of my relatives under it.” He had smiled then, but not in jest. “I don’t feel quite so personal about it as some, but I haven’t forgotten either.”
No, not conquered. Not through a thousand years of strife and treachery, and not now. Defeated, scattered, but still surviving. Like Ian, maimed but upright. Like her father, exiled but still a Highlander.
With an effort she put Roger from her mind, and hurried to keep up with Ian’s long, limping stride.
* * *
His lean face had lighted with pleasure when she had asked him to show her Lallybroch. It had been arranged that Young Jamie would take her to Inverness in a week’s time, to see her safely aboard a ship to the Colonies, and she meant to use her time here to good advantage.
They walked—at a good pace, despite Ian’s leg—over the fields toward the small foothills that rimmed the valley to the north, rising toward the pass through the black crags. It was a beautiful place, she thought. The pale green fields of oats and barley rippled with shifting light, cloud-shadows scudding through the spring sunshine, driven by the breeze that bent the stems of budding grass.
One field lay in long, dark ridges, the dirt humped and bare. At the side of the field stood a large heap of rough stones, neatly stacked.
“Is that a cairn?” she asked Ian, voice lowered in respect. Cairns were the memorials of the dead, her mother had told her—sometimes the very long dead—new rocks added to the heap by each passing visitor.
He glanced at her in surprise, caught the direction of her gaze, and grinned.
“Ah, no, lass. Those are the stones we turned up wi’ the plow in the spring. Every year we take them out, and every year there come new ones. Damned if I ken where they come from,” he added, shaking his head in resignation. “Stone fairies come and sow them in the night, I expect.”
She didn’t know whether this was a joke or not. Uncertain whether to laugh, she asked a question instead.
“What will you plant here?”
“Oh, it’s planted already.” Ian shaded his eyes, squinting across the long field with pride. “This is the tattie field. The new vines will be up by the end of the month.”
“Tattie—oh, potatoes!” She looked at the field with new interest. “Mama told me about that.”
“Aye, it was Claire’s notion—and a good one, too. There’s more than once the tatties have kept us from starving.” He smiled briefly but said nothing more, and moved off, heading for the wild hills beyond the fields.
It was a long walk. The day was breezy, but warm, and Brianna was sweating by the time they paused at last, halfway up a rough track through the heather. The narrow path seemed to perch precariously between a steep hillside and an even steeper fall down a sheer rock face into a small, splashing burn.
Ian stopped, wiping his brow with his sleeve, and motioned her to a seat amid the heaps of granite boulders. From this vantage point, the valley lay below them, the farmhouse seeming small and incongruous, its fields a feeble intrusion of civilization on the surrounding wilderness of crag and heather.
He brought out a stone bottle from the sack he carried, and drew the cork with his teeth.
“That’ll be your mother’s doing, too,” he said with a grin, handing her the bottle. “That I’ve kept my teeth, I mean.” He passed the tip of his tongue meditatively over his front teeth, shaking his head.
“A great one for eatin’ weeds, your mother, but who’s to argue, eh? Half the men my age are eatin’ naught but porridge now.”
“She was always telling me to eat up my vegetables, when I was little. And brush after every meal.” Brianna took the bottle from him and tilted it into her mouth; the ale was strong and bitter, but welcomely cool after the long walk.
“When ye were little, eh?” Amused, Ian cast an eye over her length. “I’ve seldom seen a lass sae braw. I’d say your mother kent her business, aye?”
She smiled back and gave him back the bottle.
“She knew enough to marry a tall man, at least,” she said wryly.
Ian laughed and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. He gazed affectionately at her, brown eyes warm.
“Ah, it’s fine to see ye, lassie. You’re verra much like him, it’s true. Christ, what I wouldna give to be there when Jamie sees you!”
She looked down at the ground, biting her lip. The ground was thick with bracken, and their path up the hill showed plain, where the green fronds that had overgrown the track had been crushed and knocked aside.
“I don’t know whether he knows or not,” she blurted. “About me.” She glanced up at him. “He didn’t tell you.”
Ian rocked back a little, frowning.
“No, that’s true,” he said slowly. “But I am thinking he maybe hadna time to say, even if he knew. He’ll not have been here long, that last time he came, with Claire. And then, it was such a moil, wi’ all that happened—” He stopped, pursing his lips, and glanced at her.